


a place by the fire

by evewithanapple



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Slow Burn, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:53:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23554108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/evewithanapple
Summary: Sara's father leaves her a final gift, although not precisely in the way he intended.
Relationships: Dead Homesteader's Only Daughter/Mail Order Bride She Did Not Know About
Comments: 27
Kudos: 112
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	a place by the fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lemonsharks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsharks/gifts).



“We didn’t know you were coming,” Sara says, for the third time since they’ve left the station. “If we had known, we would have prepared better, had a room ready. As is, I’m afraid the house is a bit of a mess.”

The woman sitting beside her on the buckboard only inclines her head with a soft “hmm.” Sara’s tendency to blather is one she’s been reprimanded for all her life, but it’s serving her in good stead now: Miss Drummond has said barely five words since Sara arrived to pick her up, and someone has to fill the silence. The situation is uncomfortable enough without an oppressive silence hanging over them for the entire half-hour ride back to the homestead.

“There’ll be room for you, never fear,” Sara says. “We’ve cleaned out Pa’s old room, which - well, I suppose it would have been your room anyway, wouldn’t it? There’s two bedrooms altogether, one for the adults and one for the little ones. But we sent the little ones to stay with my brother David and his wife until the fever passed, and they haven’t returned yet. It seemed safer to make absolutely certain we had all recovered before we had them back. I’ve had the scarlatina before, and my brother Freddy - you’ll meet him when we get home, he’s fifteen - had it and recovered this winter. But the little ones haven’t, and Jennie in particular’s always been delicate.” She pauses. “I don’t know how much Pa mentioned - “

“Six children.” The veil in front of Miss Drummond’s face flutters slightly as she speaks. “Yourself, your elder brother David, your younger brothers Freddy and Albert, and your sisters Jennie and Bertha. David is married and established in a home of his own, you are nineteen and remain at home to help with the farm, Freddy is fifteen, Albert is nine, Jennie is six, and Bertha is three. You and Freddy are finished with school, and the girls are too young to attend just yet, so you teach them at home.”

Sara goggles at Miss Drummond. She feels a bit bad for it, but seeing as how the other woman is wearing a deep green veil that matches her hat, it’s not as though she can actually _see_. “That’s right,” she says. “Jennie can read her catechism now, and Bertha - well, she’s not up to much yet, but she sits with us while I’m teaching Jennie. And she’s a clever little thing, so she’ll catch up soon.” The last time they sat down for lessons - six weeks ago now, before Pa took sick - Bertha had pointed at a picture of a sheep in the reader and loudly exclaimed “baaaaaaaaaa!” Pa had lifted her in the air and said “we’ll soon make a farmer of you, what do you think of that?”

Thinking of Pa made Sara’s throat close up, but it was difficult to think of anything _but_ Pa with Miss Drummond sitting beside her. She was, in an odd way, Pa’s last gift to them. It had been right there, in the letters Sara had found and opened while they were cleaning out Pa’s writing desk: _I share in your hope that I will make a good mother to your children, and help you in building them a good and loving home, and by God’s grace see them all raised up well in the sight of our Lord . . ._

She’d never know for certain why Pa hadn’t told them Miss Drummond was coming, but she could guess: it had been his idea of a surprise, a closing of the family circle since they’d lost Ma when Bertha was born. She remembered clearly, only a week before Pa took sick, he’d put a hand on her shoulder as she was coming out of the children’s room after putting Bertha and Jennie to bed. “You’re a good girl, Sara,” he’d told her. “I hope soon you’ll have the chance to raise a family of your own.” She’d thought little of it at the time, but it was painfully clear in hindsight. He’d meant to bring Miss Drummond in to replace her, give her a chance to find a husband and leave home. Of course, she’d never intended to find a husband, but he hadn’t known that, and she could never have told him anyway. A tragedy of errors all around.

“I suggested writing letters to them,” Miss Drummond says, "but your father preferred that my arrival be a surprise.". Sara keeps one eye on the horses and the other on her passenger, fascinated by the fluttering of Miss Drummond’s veil. Did all women in Boston dress this way? Sara, born and raised on the Kansas prairie, knew nothing of New England fashions but what she’d seen in magazines. She wondered why a fancy young lady would choose to travel out here and marry a man she’d never met, when she could remain where she was and enjoy as many beautiful clothes as she wanted.

“So I gathered,” Sara says, “from his - your - letters.” She sees the homestead looming before them, and tugs on the reins to get Bessy to slow down. “Almost home.”

When they roll into the front yard, Freddy is waiting in the doorway. As Sara settles the horse, he steps forward and helps Miss Drummond down from her seat on the buckboard. She stands in the yard, skirts flapping in the wind, her valise clutched tightly in both hands. She looks an odd sight, a splash of bright colour against the greens and greys of the early-spring prairie.

“Her bag’s in the back, Freddy,” Sara says, “fetch it will you?” To Miss Drummond, she says, “come in, and I’ll show you the - your room. I’m sure you’d like to rest.”

Miss Drummond follows her in, puppy-like. It’s an uncharitable thought, but her silence is beginning to make Sara nervous. It will be an excruciating few weeks - or however long Miss Drummond plans to stay - if she spends the entire length of time speaking as little as possible. The strange quiet that’s settled over the house in the children’s absence is bad enough without a stranger moving through the house, not saying a word.

“There’s paper and ink in the desk there,” Sara says as Miss Drummond sits on the newly made bed. “If you’d like to write to your aunt and uncle.” She hesitates, then plunges ahead. “We haven’t any money to buy you a ticket home, but perhaps they might? I’m sure they’ll want to have you back, now.”

Miss Drummond makes a small noise, perhaps a cough. “Why would they want to have me back?”

“Well . . .” Sara’s fumbling. No situation in her life has prepared her to navigate sending her dead father’s fiancée back across the country. “Since you’re not - you won’t be getting married, now. Of course, you can stay with us, but there’s not much for you to do, and I know you’ve never - that is, you haven’t worked on a farm before. If you went home to Provincetown, you could . . .” She falters. She’s not really sure what Miss Drummond would do in Provincetown. What do young ladies do, when they live on the coast instead of a farm? Fish? She doesn’t think so; Miss Drummond does not strike her as a woman accustomed to physical labour. She’s small and slight, hands obviously delicate even through her gloves. Perhaps they make and sell lace. Sara could imagine Miss Drummond making lace.

Miss Drummond turns her head to face Sara. Slowly, she brings her hands up to her face and lifts her veil. Sara starts in spite of herself. The face Miss Drummond turns to her is small and pointed, pale eyelashes matching the few curls of pale hair escaping from underneath her hat. Her eyes ere pale blue, almost the colour of ice. But it’s the right side of her face that startles Sara. A large blotchy purple spot stands out, livid, against the pale of her skin; it starts at the corner of her mouth, and spreads down across her cheek and neck, finally stopping just above the high collar of her dress. At first glance, Sara thinks Miss Drummond has been burned, but then she realizes that the skin - purple thought it is - is clear and unpuckered, indistinguishable from the area that surrounds it but for its colour. A birthmark, then. Sara’s never seen one so large - but then, she hasn’t seen that many people in her life.

“My aunt and uncle will not ask me to return,” Miss Drummond says. Her voice is quiet; not naturally quiet, but the quiet of someone used to stifling themselves. “As you can see, I do not have much value on the marriage market in Massachusetts. When I sent your father a photograph, he said he did not mind so long as I was willing to work hard and treat his children well. My aunt and uncle were happy to have me taken off their hands.” She sets her hands on her lap. “They would take me back if I asked, but neither they nor I would be happy about it. It would not make for a harmonious home.”

Sara struggles to keep her mouth from dropping open. She tries to think what Pa (or, for that matter, Ma) would have said if one of their children had been born with an unsightly blemish or other disfigurement. She tries to imagine them choosing to send her, or Freddy, or one of the little ones across the country in hopes that they would no longer be an unmarriageable bother. She can’t conceive of it. In fact -

“My brother Albert has a limp,” she blurts out. Miss Drummond’s eyebrows raise, just a fraction. “Has since he was five and broke his ankle. It healed in the wrong direction, so now his foot turns out odd. No one ever made a fuss over it.” That last bit is a slight fib; Ma and Pa _had_ worried over how Albert would manage if he wasn’t able to work the farm, but their worries had abated when he started school. The teacher had told Pa Albert was the smartest child in the schoolhouse, and there had even been talk of scraping money together to send him to college back east. Sara didn’t know if that would happen, now - so much depended on how well she could run the farm - but her parents had been proud of their son, the same as they were of the rest of them. Only one schoolmate had ever made the mistake of jibing at Albert for his limp; Freddy had knocked him into the dirt, and that had been that.

“I . . . see,” Miss Drummond said. She smoothed her hands over her lap, though Sara could see no creases in the fabric. “Well, I am glad you have been blessed with loving parents, though they have both been taken from you too soon.” She hesitates. Sara is already becoming accustomed to these pauses in her conversation; it’s as though she weighs every word carefully, trying to ensure that she makes herself as inoffensive as possible. “My own mother and father died when I was quite young. Yellow fever. My aunt and uncle took me in, but the situation was . . .” She bites her lip, pearly teeth sinking into the pale pink flesh. “Difficult.”

“Then I’m sorry, too,” Sara says. “I can’t make any promises about what will happen next, but we won’t turn you out of doors.”

A small smile from Miss Drummond. “That sounds like a promise.”

Sara considers. “I suppose it is.” She turns to leave - surely Miss Drummond would like to rest - but hesitates in the door. “What would you prefer we call you? We could carry on addressing you as ‘Miss Drummond,’ but it seems awfully formal. You were - that is, you’re more or less family now.”

“I am?”

“Of course you are!” Indignance - both at the presumption that she would think otherwise, and at the aunt and uncle who she suspects put the thought into Miss Drummond’s head - overpowers Sara’s sense of decorum. “You would have been my stepmother if Pa was alive, wouldn’t you? _He_ wanted you to be one of us. That makes you family to me.”

“I -“ For the first time, Miss Drummond’s composure appears shaken. “Thank you. I had not expected such kindness.” She looks down at her lap again. “My given name is Dorothea. My aunt and uncle called me Thea.”

“Do you _like_ Thea?” Something in Miss Drummond’s - Dorothea’s - voice told Sara she did not.

“It is a pretty name,” she says, “but I never felt it suited me. I always fancied myself more of a Dora.” She smiles, a little ruefully. “I’m told that, when I was quite small, I insisted on being called Charity for a time. It’s my middle name. It seems like a silly flight of fancy, now.”

“Not an uncommon one,” Sara replies. “And at least it was already a part of your name. When I was small, I wanted to be called Rowena because Ma was reading us _Ivanhoe_.”

For the first time, Dora’s smile appears unrestrained. “Rowena was my favourite as well. Although when it came to Scott’s other works, I prefer his poetry to his fiction. I always loved _Marmion_ best.”

“I never read it,” Sara says. “We only had _Ivanhoe_ and the Bible at home.” School had scarcely been better; the contents of her reader had been a dreary compendium of morality tales. She’d once borrowed _The Cameron Pride_ from her deskmate, but the first chapter had bored her to distraction, and she hadn’t bothered to read the second.

“I did bring a few books with me.” Dora is blushing slightly, pink roses blooming in her cheeks. “They seemed a terrible extravagance - my aunt said so - but I knew I would miss them dreadfully if I left them behind. I’m sure _The Lady of Shalott_ and _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_ will grow tedious upon repetition, but you are welcome to read them, if you wish.”

“I would like that,” Sara says. “Thank you.” She shifts from foot to foot, feeling suddenly awkward; she’s surely overstayed her welcome. “I’ll leave you to settle in, then.”

Dora’s expression flutters, but only for a moment. Then her smile returns. “Thank you.”

Sara backs out of the bedroom and closes the door softly behind her. Freddy is sitting at the kitchen table in his shirtsleeves, peeling a bowl of potatoes. He looks up when Sara comes in. “Well?”

“Well, what?” she says, a little crossly. She feels unaccountably as though she has been suddenly yanked from a pleasant daydream; thoughts of bending her head over a book of poetry with Dora are being chased rapidly away by the prosaic sight of her brother preparing for dinner. It’s not Freddy’s fault, but the sudden return to earth is an uncomfortable one.

“Well, is she _staying_?” Freddy demands, setting his knife down on the table. “Are we about to have another mouth to feed? I don’t see how we’re to keep the farm up with her hanging about doing nothing.”

“Frederick Nelson, you lower your voice!” Freddy glowers at her, but she plunges on. “She’ll stay so long as she wants to, and you’ll keep a gracious tongue in your head about it! What do you think Pa would say, to hear you being so uncharitable?” She picks up the broom that was leaning against the wall and begins to sweep with more than necessary force. “And besides,” she adds, “she won’t be doing nothing. I’ll find her something to do about the house. Keep your mind to your own work, and never mind Miss Drummond.”

Freddy says nothing, just shoves his chair back and stomps out the front door. Sara doesn’t stop his going. He’s been rebellious of late, chafing at Sara’s new position as head of the household, and she’s learned already to pick her battles. “No use fighting a fractious horse,” Pa used to tell her, “it’ll only grow more stubborn. Let it come to you in its own time, and you’ll save yourself a world of pain.” Her brother reminded her of nothing more than a horse, lately: all coltish limbs and stomping feet. Soothing Freddy was hardly her greatest concern at the moment. Let him sulk as much as he pleased; so long as he was out from underfoot, she wasn’t going to bother with him.

Freddy seemed in no hurry to return, so Sara set her broom aside and prepared supper herself. By the time he returned, and Dora emerged from her room, Sara had a mess of meat and potatoes waiting for them. Freddy didn’t bother to thank her, just lowered himself into his chair and began to shovel food into his mouth. Dora sat opposite him and began to nibble delicately at the venison. “The food is lovely Sara, thank you.”

“Bit more rustic than you’re used to back East,” Freddy mutters, and Sara shoots him a glare. Dora only smiles. “It’s not so different from the meals my aunt’s cook served.” She takes a bite of potatoes. “Less gravy, but I never cared much for gravy to begin with. It feels so slippery in your mouth.”

Freddy said nothing more, which Sara counted as a victory. They ate in silence, up until the end of the meal, when Dora set her fork down and said, “If it’s not overstepping, I could prepare supper tomorrow. I’m not an expert cook, but I do know how to prepare stew, and I could make corn cake.”

“That would be lovely,” Sara says, “thank you.” She kicks Freddy under the table until he mutters “thanks.” Dora smiles at both of them; if she’s noticed Freddy’s rudeness, she’s well-bred enough not to point it out. She even rises to help collect the plates and wash them when the meal is over, and although Sara has to teach her how to scrub with sand, she’s still grateful for the assistance. No one has moved to help her like this since - well, since Pa took sick. Freddy helps when he’s a mind to, but his mind is so changeable, he’s not someone she can lean on. And here’s Dora, dropped unexpectedly into the bosom of a strange family, already smiling and scrubbing plates and offering to cook. It makes something in Sara’s throat tighten, and several times, she finds herself having to turn away from Dora to keep the other woman from seeing the tears gathering in her eyes.

By the time they’ve washed up, it’s grown dark outside, and the interior of the house is lit only by candles and the fire in the grate. “Go on and change for bed,” Sara says to Dora, “there’s no more to be done tonight.”

Dora looks surprised. “So soon?”

Sara gestures at the gathering darkness outside the windows. “There’s nothing so urgent as it needs doing after nightfall. It would only waste the candles. We’ll rise up with the sun and get to it first thing tomorrow.”

Dora vanishes into the bedroom with no further prompting, and Sara sets about banking down the fire and snuffing the candles. Freddy takes one and disappears with it into his room; Sara takes the only remaining lit taper and carries it into Pa’s old room, where Dora’s set herself up.

She stops in the doorway, staring at Dora. Dora blushes under her gaze. “I’m sorry, I - “

“You’re not wearing _that_ to bed?” Sara says. Dora’s nightgown is sewn from delicate muslin, with little rosebuds embroidered along the collar and cuffs. It’s beautiful, but it was clearly made for a warmer winter - or at least, a warmer house - than what Dora is going to encounter in Kansas. “It’s lighter than paper, you’ll freeze in that. Do you not have another?”

Dora’s blush deepens. “I - I didn’t realize. This is the o- the nicest one I had.”

 _The only one, you mean_ , Sara thinks. Aloud, she says, “Well, never mind it; you couldn’t have known.” She sets the candle down on the vanity. “I’ll share the bed with you, it’ll keep us both warm through the night. And the next time we go into town, we can buy some flannel to make you a proper nightgown. That thing may serve you for the summer, but winter will get into your bones if you’re not dressed warmer.”

Dora’s face still glows pink in the candlelight. “Thank you.”

“You needn’t thank me,” Sara says, blowing out the candle and sliding into bed. “I’d rather no one freeze to death under my roof, is all. It would make an awful poor hostess of me.”

Dora lets out a soft sound that might be a giggle, and slips under the covers on the other side of the bed. “Good night, then.”

“G’night.”

Dora’s breath grows slow and even quickly, and Sara can see her face go slack and peaceful in the moonlight streaming through the window. Sara does not sleep so easily. She kicks about in the bed for a few minutes, then realizes she might wake Dora, and stops. It’s harder than she would have thought; she’s not ordinarily a wriggler, but knowing that she _can’t_ move makes her _want_ to. She rolls over onto her side instead, tucking her hands into her armpits, and sets about examining Dora’s sleeping face in an attempt to distract herself.

Dora is not so slight as Sara had originally assumed - either because she’s removed her stays for the night, or simply because, asleep, she is no longer curling in on herself in an attempt to look small and meek. The quilt is tucked up under her chin, but their bodies brush together under the covers, and Sara can feel her shape: plump legs brushing Sara’s, a soft stomach rising and falling gently with every breath, breasts pushing out against the thin fabric of her nightgown. Before she blew the candle out, Sara had been able to see the pucker of her nipples, dark pink against white fabric and stiff with cold. Her own nipples are stiff under her flannel nightdress, and she knows it isn’t owing to the cold.

 _Stop it_ , she tells herself, turning over to face the wall. So Dora’s beautiful; so what? She’s a guest in Sara’s home, in her bed. In another world, she would have been Sara’s _stepmother_ , for all that they’re no more than five years apart in age. To look at her like something beautiful - something to be touched - is wrong. She isn’t for Sara, and Sara will simply have to accept that.

* * *

She wakes with the sun the next morning, though she had little enough rest the night before that her head still feels thick and muddy. Dora’s side of the bed has been vacated, and she’s even smoothed the sheets and quilt up under the pillow. They’re dislodged as soon as Sara rolls over, but still, she appreciates the sentiment.

When she emerges into the kitchen, she finds Dora bent over the stove, poking at a tray fresh out of the oven. Her face lights up when she sees Sara. “Oh, you’re awake!” She retrieves a plate from the cupboard and sets it on the table. “I made oat cakes for breakfast, I hope you don’t mind - Freddy showed me where to find the butter.”

Still only half-awake, Sara takes her seat at the table. “Freddy’s up?” She looks around. “Where is he now?”

“Out in the barn, milking the cow. I offered to help, but he said I might get kicked if I try milking her without knowing what I’m about.” She drops two oat cakes down on Sara’s plate, then loads one for herself, sitting across from Sara. “He did offer to teach me, later.”

“I’m glad he’s recovered his manners,” Sara manages. She picks up the oat cake and takes a bite; it’s crumbly in her mouth, but it tastes just as good as one of hers’. “Thank you for breakfast.”

“I did offer,” Dora says. Sara can’t recall whether Dora offered to serve up breakfast or supper, but it hardly matters. “I want to be helpful.”

“You are that.” Sara swallows the rest of her oat cake. “But you needn’t trouble yourself too much. We don’t put our guests to work in this house.”

Dora bites her lip, folding her hands in her lap. Already. Sara can see her shrinking again. “And if I stay?”

“If you - “ Sara blinks. It takes a moment for Dora’s meaning to sink in: if Sara treats her as a guest, it implies that she intends for Dora to leave sooner rather than later. Dissuading her from helping with the chores is a cruelty, not a kindness; it implies that she stands apart from the rest of the household. “Of course, you’re right. Forgive me. I’m terribly slow this morning.” She takes a bite out of her second cake. “You may make yourself free with as many chores as you choose to. If you wished to attempt my mending basket, I’d certainly voice no objections. I assume you know how to sew?” It just occurred to her that the fine ladies back East may not be taught sewing - at least, not practical sewing. She’s sure they all know well how to embroider a handkerchief.

“Of course,” Dora says, nodding. “But I had hoped - “ She flushes. “You needn’t, if it would be a bother. But I thought it would be practical for me to learn how to ride a horse? Your father’s letters gave the impression that it was the primary mode of transport used out here.”

“You’re right, I hadn’t thought of that.” Sara casts her mind to the two horses they have in the stable. Of the two, Bessy is a far better choice for a beginner: Albert and Jennie had both learned to ride on her back, and she’s gentle and patient enough not to buck or bite while Dora adjusts to the saddle. Polly’s younger and faster, but she’s also impatient and prone to rearing unexpectedly. Pa had been breaking her in before he passed; that task has passed on to Freddy now, and he’s making slow work of it. “We’ll dress after breakfast, and I’ll show you out to the barn.”

The rest of breakfast is a relatively quick affair, as is getting dressed; Sara only has two dresses, after all. Dora hesitates over her own wardrobe, and Sara pauses in buttoning up her dress to advise her: “Pick whatever’s got the widest skirts. You’ll want it, if you’re to be riding astride.” She pauses a thought occurring to her. “Have you ever ridden before at all?”

Dora shakes her head. “My uncle didn’t believe in it, for girls.”

“Hmph.” Her buttons dealt with, Sara pulls her hair into a braid, tying the end off with a faded bit of blue ribbon. When she turns around, she sees Dora seated at the vanity, pinning - or trying to pin - her hair. Half of it droops sadly towards her collar, while the other sticks out at odd angles. Sara bites her lip, trying not to laugh as she catches Dora’s eye in the mirror. Dora smiles ruefully. “My cousins and I always did each other’s hair.”

“Well, you won’t want it pinned up like that out here,” Sara says. She steps over to the vanity and begins pulling the pins free. “The wind will steal these in seconds. All you need is a tight braid. May I?”

Dora nods, passing the comb back to Sara. Sara pulls the last few pins out, and runs her fingers through Dora’s loose hair. It’s soft in her hands, almost the colour of corn silk, and slightly curly. It had been curlier the day before, Sara thinks; perhaps Dora normally curled it. It relaxes under the comb, though, smoothing out as Sara runs the instrument through Dora’s hair. Dora sighs, tipping her hair back, and Sara gives a lock of hair a little tug. “Don’t do that,” she says. “I won’t be able to braid it properly.”

“My apologies.” Dora straightens her neck. “I always loved having my hair combed.”

“Um-hmm.” Sara runs the comb from the crown of Dora’s head to the ends of her hair. It’s long hair, almost to the middle of her back. “If I had hair this lovely, I suppose I would, too.”

“Your hair is lovely.” Dora opens her eyes and meets Sara’s gaze in the mirror. “Like chestnuts.”

“I suppose.” Sara sets the comb aside and gathers Dora’s hair into three sections to braid. “It loses its novelty somewhat when everyone in your family has the same colour. Jennie was born blonde, and Ma joked she was a changeling, until it changed colour.”

Dora lifts her hand and touches a stray lock of hair at her temple. “I don’t look like any of my family. I mean, even besides this - “ Her fingers splay out across her birthmark - “my cousins all had auburn hair. My aunt as well. She told me I got my looks from my mother’s side of the family.”

“She was your father’s sister?” Dora’s hair is so smooth, it keeps slipping out of Sara’s grasp. She has to start the braid all over again whenever it happens.

“Half sister. And a good deal older.” Dora, Sara notices, is wringing her hands in her lap again. “My grandfather married a woman some years his junior when all his other children were grown. So my father and aunt didn’t see a great deal of each other when my father was small. But after he and my mother died, there was no one else to take me, so I was sent to live with my aunt. She and my uncle were kind, in their fashion, but I know I was a burden to them. That’s why I answered your father’s advertisement. I thought I would do better here, where I had more to offer a household than simply taking up space. Ow!”

“Sorry,” Sara says; her hands had clenched in Dora’s hair as she listened to her tale, and she’d unconsciously yanked on the ends. “I wasn’t paying attention. There, you’re done.” She gives the braid a final pat. “Do you have a hair ribbon? You can borrow one of mine, if you don’t.”

Dora shakes her head, so Sara reaches under the vanity to retrieve her own second-best ribbon. It had been a vivid pink when she first bought it, but it’s grown worn and dingy with use. She ties the bow as neatly as she can, but the ends still droop. She makes a private resolution to buy two new ones the next time she goes into town - one for her, and one for Dora. “We might go out to the barn now, if you’re ready.”

Dora follows her outside, trailing close at her heels. Freddy, Sara saw, had already let Bessy and Polly out to graze in the paddock. Polly whinnied when she saw Sara and Dora, pawing up tufts of grass with her front hooves. Dora flinches.

“Don’t worry,” Sara says, “we won’t be bothering with her today. You’ll be riding Bessy, and she’s a sweet one. You can introduce yourself while I get her tack on.”

“Her what?” But Dora is already slowly approaching Bessy, who dips her head in acknowledgement. She reaches out to stroke Bessy’s forelock, and the horse whickers softly in appreciation.

“Her saddle and bridle. Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

It takes Sara no time at all to fetch Bessy’s tack, and less time to strap them in place. As she does it, Dora keeps on petting the horse, talking softly to her as she does it. Bessy stays in place for it all, only neighing a little in response to Dora’s talk. When Sara’s done securing the saddle in place, she takes a step back. “I’ll ride with you this first time, just so you’re comfortable. Come here, I’ll boost you up.”

Dora looks more than a little wary, but she comes when Sara calls to her, obediently setting her foot in Sara’s cupped hands and allowing herself to be hoisted across the back of the horse. Sara swings herself up after her easily, hooking her arms around Dora’s waist and grasping the reins with both hands. “We’ll start with a walk,” she says, “and ease into it.” And she clicks her tongue to Bessy, nudging the horse’s flanks with her heels to get her to start moving.

Dora yelps a little when the horse begins to move, and Sara tightens her arms around Dora’s waist. “Bessy would never throw you,” she says, “and I wouldn’t let her, even if she tried. Try to lean into the way she moves. It’s easier than getting jostled back and forth.”

Dora casts a doubtful look over her shoulder at Sara. Her frame is stiff in Sara’s arms, like she’s bracing herself against a blow. “Lean back against me,” Sara says, “and try to relax. No harm will come to you, I promise.”

When Dora leans into Sara’s embrace, her body is still stiff, but she at least isn’t trying to hold herself upright any longer. Sara leans forward, setting her chin on Dora’s shoulder, and speaks soothingly to the horse; Bessy, picking up on her rider’s discomfort, has put her ears back flat. “It’s all right,” Sara says, speaking for the benefit of both horse and rider. “We’ve done this plenty of times before. Dora, when you’re ready, we should try trotting.”

“Not galloping?” It’s hard to tell, but Sara thinks Dora might be making a joke.

“Not today, I don’t think,” she says. Nudging Bessy with her heels again, she urges the horse into picking her feet up. “You’ll be stiff enough tomorrow morning without trying to gallop your first time out. You’re doing well one step at a time.”

“I am?” Dora relaxes against Sara, though only fractionally. “I’d hate to see what you would consider doing poorly.”

“You haven’t tried to leap off the horse and run for it, have you?” Sara laughs. Dora does too “Hold on, the trotting’s about to start. It can jar your teeth if you’re not used to it.”

Dora yelps once again when the horse begins to trot, but Sara just tightens her arms around her and laughs again. It feels nice to hold her - not the way she’d imagined the night before, not with any lecherous intent, but just to have the warmth of Dora’s back pressed to her front, the thump of her heart Sara can feel through her dress and stays, the rise and fall of her breathing as she laughs in delight when Bessy shakes her head and snorts. They take five turns around the paddock that way, slow and gentle, before Sara pulls on the reins and draws the horse to a halt.

“Already?” Dora asks. Sara chuckles as she dismounts. “I didn’t think you’d protest.”

“I don’t mind,” Dora says, though she’s ginger about swinging her legs across the side of the saddle. “I’m surprised, it all. It went by so quickly.”

Sara holds her arms up, and Dora slides down easily into her grip. She hits the ground with a slight stumble, knocking forward against Sara’s chest. Sara breathes in the scent of her, soap and sweat and rosewater, and has to take several deep breaths to steady herself. Dora puts her arms up around Sara’s neck to steady herself, and if Sara lowered her chin a little, they would be at just the right angle to kiss.

Did Dora realize? She doesn’t seem to; she’s looking up at Sara with wide blue eyes, entirely guileless. Sara drops her arms down to her sides and takes a step back. “To the house now, I think. There’s chores to be done, always; the children will be coming home next week, and I’ve got to make things ready for them.”

Dora blinks at her, evidently confused by Sara’s sudden withdrawal, but she takes a step back herself and re-arranges her skirts. “Then I’ll get supper while you work,” she says.

“I would like that,” Sara says, and beats a hasty retreat towards the house. She can hear Dora following in her wake, but doesn’t dare turn around.

* * *

The days proceed like this: Dora cooks, Sara cleans, and Freddy tends to the horses. Sara and Dora go out for rides on Bessy at least once a day, although after that first ride, Sara stays on the ground and guides the horse while Dora learns to hold the reins and guide Bessy with her feet. If Dora was perturbed by Sara’s sudden distance, she made no note of it.

In the evenings, after supper had been washed up, they all three gathered by the fire. Freddy would sit furthest away, carving something at the kitchen table – Sara insisted he do it there, so as to avoid spreading wood shavings all over the floor. Sara bent over the mending basket, making sure that the children’s clothes were all ready for their return. And Dora sat closest to the flames – she still shivered in the evening air – and read poetry.

She had a good voice for it. She was still soft-spoken most of the time, but when she was reading someone else’s words, her voice grew slower and deeper. She raised her voice when the poems called for it, mimicked all sorts of accents for the different characters, and even sometimes stood and gestured when she grew especially carried away.

“``Tears of an imprisoned maiden mix with my polluted stream; Margaret of Branksome, sorrow-laden, mourns beneath the moon's pale beam.” She’s reading in the voice of the River Spirit tonight, and is as light and tuneful as anyone might wish. “Tell me, thou, who view'st the stars,

_When shall cease these feudal jars?_

_What shall be the maiden's fate?_

_Who shall be the maiden's mate?'_ ”

“I don’t want them to stop their jars,” Freddy says, not looking up from the table. Sara allows herself a private smile; he’s been pretending not to pay attention to the poem. “The war is more exciting than all the lovemaking.”

“You think so,” Dora replies. “It seems Margaret of Branksome disagrees.” She turns the page. “Arthur's slow wain his course doth roll in utter darkness round the pole; the Northern Bear lowers black and grim; Orion's studded belt is dim . . .”

Sara lets her hands fall idle in her lap. Dora is lit up by the firelight; her skin, which has been growing brighter and pinker with her daily exposure to the fresh prairie air, glows almost golden. Her hair is still in the plaits Sara put it in this morning; when they go to bed, she will unplait them and comb them out before they retire. It’s rapidly become her favourite part of the day: the quiet unwinding, the feeling of Dora under her hands, the silent shared enjoyment of their time together.

“But round Lord David's tower,” Dora reads,

_The sound still floated near;_

_For it rung in the Ladye's bower,_

_And it rung in the Ladye's ear._

_She raised her stately head,_

_And her heart throbb'd high with pride:--_

_``Your mountains shall bend,_

_And your streams ascend,_

_Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride!''_ ”

“Poor Margaret,” Sara says. “I’m glad I’m not an aristocrat’s daughter. No feuding clans for me.”

“Nor me,” Dora says, “and we’re all the better for it.” She shuts the book with a snap. “We’ll leave it there for tonight, shall we? It’s getting late.”

Sara glances out the window and sees the moon risen high in the sky. “So it is.” She stands, tucking the last bits of mending in her basket. “Freddy, if you’re up later than us, will you bank the fire down?”

“’Course,” says Freddy, his eyes still on his carving. Sara gestures to Dora, who gets up and follows her into the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind her.

“You know, I think Freddy’s been reading ahead in the book,” Dora remarks once the door’s closed. She sits down in front of the vanity, pulling pins free of her hair and shaking her plaits over her shoulder. “I find it in a different place every morning.”

“So long as he’s not forced to admit he’s enjoying himself,” Sara says, smiling as she picks up the hairbrush. She’s taken to experimenting with Dora’s hair over the past week; sometimes they play with her braids, tying them together at the bottom, or piling them on top of Dora’s head. This morning, Sara had wound them around Dora’s head in a crown. “There you go,” she’d said. “The Lady of Shalott couldn’t be lovelier.”

With the pins already removed, it doesn’t take long to unwind the two plaits and comb them out. Still, Sara lets her hands linger in Dora’s hair, luxuriating in the soft silken flow of it. Blowing the candle out and going to bed tonight feels like a loss; tomorrow, she will take the wagon over to David’s to retrieve the children. She’ll be glad to see her siblings again, of course, but she can’t help but fear that her quiet times with Dora will end once the house has six occupants rather than three.

“You should let me brush your hair,” Dora says, as Sara’s brush stills. “Return the favour.”

Sara smiles ruefully at her in the mirror. “You don’t want to bother with my hair. It’s a bird’s nest at the best of times.”

“I do.” Dora lifts her gaze to meet Sara’s in the mirror. “I – I want to touch you.”

The brush slides from Sara’s limp fingers, landing on the vanity with a clatter. “You – “ she starts, then clears her throat and tries again. “You can touch me whenever you like. We share a bed, don’t we?”

The words hang heavy in the air, in a way Sara hadn’t anticipated until they left her mouth. She lets her hands fall to Dora’s shoulders, just skimming her nightgown; she doesn’t dare hold her any tighter. Dora brings one hand up to cover Sara’s. “May I?” she says softly. “After that first riding lesson, you seemed – distressed. And you pulled away so quickly. I thought you objected.”

“I didn’t wish for _you_ to object,” Sara says. Her heart is thudding. “I know our manners are rougher here than they are back East, and I don’t – “

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” It’s the first sign of frustration she’s ever seen from Dora, and it makes her jump. “Have I raised any objection since I arrived? Have I appeared daunted by anything you’ve said or done? If I did object, I would say so.” She takes a deep breath. “I may not have spoken up if I were still in Boston, it’s true, but this is not Boston, and you are not my aunt. You’ve made it clear that I am to feel at home here, and I do. If I say I want to touch you, it’s because I do. The only reason I hadn’t is because I believed you did not want it. If you don’t – “

“I do,” Sara says. Her voice is rough. “I do – I only worried you didn’t – “

Dora drops her gaze in the mirror and starts to laugh. “Look at the pair of us,” she says. “How do we accomplish anything, in this state?”

“Well, we can now,” Sara retorts. With Dora’s implicit permission now given, she tightens her grip on Dora’s hand where it covers hers’. “And if you wish to touch me, you should.”

Dora twists in her seat, tilting her head up towards Sara. Sara ducks down towards her, her hair falling past her cheek as she bends to kiss Dora. It’s a clumsy affair to begin with, the angle odd and stiff; she can already feel a crick beginning to form in her neck. But Dora’s mouth is hot and open beneath hers’, and it’s difficult to care about anything else under the circumstances. Not when Dora’s tongue chases Sara’s into her mouth, licking along the back of her teeth, tasting of sugar and honey. Not when Dora puts a hand up around the back of Sara’s neck and pulls her in so that she can’t break the kiss. Not when the most pressing issue is making her hands free to explore Dora’s dress, yanking the top four buttons free so that she can plunge her hands inside to caress her breasts.

“Here,” she gasps into Dora’s mouth and pulls them both upright. The chair goes over with a clatter as Dora stands, and they both freeze for a long moment, waiting to see if Freddy will come to investigate the source of the noise. But after several seconds tick by with no footsteps approaching, Sara grasps Dora around the waist and hauls her closer. Dora scrabbles against her, hiking a leg up and around her hip as though she’s trying to climb Sara like a tree, whimpering into her mouth as Sara runs a thumb back and forth across her nipple. When Sara does draw back, both nipples are visible peaked through the gap in the dress, and Dora is gasping for breath, her mouth red and swollen from kissing. “What now?” she pants.

“What _now_?” Sara repeats. “How should _I_ know? I’ve never done this before!”

“Well, neither have I!” Dora digs her hands into Sara’s hair, pulling her in close again. “Kiss me, please – “

Sara kisses her, pressing her back against the edge of the vanity. Dora runs her hands through Sara’s hair, then down, squeezing her waist and then grasping her backside through her skirts. Sara presses one of Dora’s leg between both of hers’, and grinds down; there’s a fire in her belly that’s spreading through her body, and she wants nothing more than to throw kindling on it.

“Here – here,” she pants, drawing back just far enough to undo the rest of the buttons on Dora’s dress and shoving it down to pool around her ankles. Dora steps out of the puddle of fabric, kicking it aside. She’s left in her shift, but her shift is thin, and it’s easy for Sara to see the outline of her body in the candlelight. She wants to pull Dora against her so tight that they can never be separated; to kiss her until they meld together, one flesh and one mind, one great roiling mass of pleasure. Instead, she tightens her grip on Dora’s hips and whispers “turn around,” in her ear.

Dora gives her a searching look, but she does as she’s told. Standing back-to-front like this, Sara can still look at Dora in the mirror, but she also has the space required to reach down and slide the hem of Dora’s shift up, reaching under the fabric to put her hand in between Dora’s legs and pinch one of her thighs. Dora gasps, shuddering back against her as Sara’s fingers climb higher, sliding across the slick surface of her folds.

“God, _God_ ,” Dora moans, tipping her head back so that her mouth is against Sara’s ear. Sara can feel her wetness spreading down her fingers as she twists her hand to let Dora ride her palm. Her fingers, she keeps on working in circles, picking up speed as Dora thrashes in her arms. In the mirror, Sara sees her bite her lip, and wishes she could shout as loud as she wanted. She’d like to hear it; but something about the look on her face, the tension suffusing her mouth as she tries to hold back her cries and whimpers that makes the place between her own legs throb. She bends her neck to bite down on the column of Dora’s throat, and feels her clench around her fingers, gasping out her release beside Sara’s ear.

She shudders through the aftershocks in Sara’s arms, then lets herself hang there limply. Sara stays where she is, though she loops her arms around Dora’s waist rather than leaving her hands where they were. They stand there for what feels like a long time, swaying slightly back and forth in front of the mirror. It’s so pleasant, Sara hardly minds the fact that she’s still overheated and wet and painfully aroused beneath her own skirts.

Eventually, Dora opens her eyes and looks at Sara in the mirror. “Will you sit on the bed?”

Sara draws back slightly. “Why?”

“You’ll see. Please.”

Sara lets her arms drop from around Dora’s waist, and retreats to the bed. As she goes, she undoes the buttons of her own dress, letting it drop to the floor. She reaches to pull her shift off as well, but Dora reaches out to stop her. “No. Wait.”

Sara lets her hands drop and sits on the edge of the bed as instructed. Dora comes to her sliding one leg up on either side of Sara’s hips, settling in her lap Cupping Sara’s face between her hands, she bends to kiss her deeply, tongue sliding into her mouth once again. Sara moans against her, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her in close. They move together, kissing voraciously; in this position, Dora can grasp Sara’s breasts through the fabric of her shift, squeezing and toying with them while Sara sobs with pleasure and clings to the long line of her back. When they finally tumble backwards, Sara wraps her legs around Dora’s thigh again, rubbing against her like a cat, slamming their bodies together while Dora’s hand clenches on her breast, until she comes in a hot rush that leaves her breathless.

Dora collapses on top of her. She’s not so heavy that Sara has any trouble breathing, and the warm body resting on top of hers’ is more than pleasant. She cards one hand through Dora’s hair, kissing the side of her neck. “If I had known,” she said. “If I had realized. I would have – “

Dora hushes her with a gentle kiss. “It doesn’t matter,” she murmurs against Sara’s lips. “It’s done now.” She rolls away – Sara misses her fiercely, for all they’re still just inches apart – and crawls up to the head of the bed, beckoning Sara after her. Sara climbs in under the quilt and curls up against Dora. They’re both still running hot, so that it verges on uncomfortable; but the wind outside is gusting against the bedroom window, and Sara thinks she could happily wait out the rest of the winter like this.

“I couldn’t sleep, the night you arrived,” she says against Dora’s shoulder. “I could only think of you. It kept me awake.”

Dora traces a feather-light finger across Sara’s collarbone. “Can you sleep now?”

Sara nestles closer into Dora’s arms, resting her head on her breasts. “There are things I’d rather do,” she says, and feels Dora’s laughter reverberate through her body. “But yes, I think I can.”

* * *

She wakes early the next morning, just as the sun is coming up. Dora turns her face into the pillow and makes a sleepy noise of protest as Sara slips out of her arms and gets out of bed. She retrieves her dress from the floor where she left it the night before, buttons herself in, and washes up before she bends over Dora to kiss her cheek. “I’m off to fetch the children from David’s,” she murmurs. “I’ll be back before noon.”

Dora cracks one eye open to look at her. “If you wait, I’ll make you breakfast.”

It’s a tempting offer, but Sara shakes her head. “I’ll have some of last night’s cornbread.” She kisses Dora again. “You can have lunch spread out for us when we get back, how’s that? No faster way to the children’s hearts than through their stomachs.”

“I hope so.” Dora’s brow is slightly furrowed, but Sara smooths it out with her thumb. “I know so. Go back to sleep, and I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Freddy’s not up yet either, so it falls to Sara to hitch up the wagon. She doesn’t really mind. It gives her a few moments to herself, and she knows she won’t have many once she collects the children. She also knows that her time with Dora will be curtailed once the little ones are underfoot; with three children all clamouring for attention in addition to the animals and the crops, they’ll both have their hands full. She feels a tinge of regret at that: that they spent so long dancing around each other, and only acted on their desires right before everything changed.

She doesn’t regret what they’ve done. She has a distant sort of idea that she _should_ regret it; all the things she’d told herself that first night were still true. Dora had been intended for her stepmother. Even if her father was dead, that hadn’t changed. But her father _is_ gone, and she and Dora are still here. She’ll grieve Pa until the day she dies, but she also doesn’t mean to turn Dora away out of a misplaced sense of filial duty. If things had been different – if he had lived, and he and Dora had wed – she would have burned in silence and never let on what she felt. But as things stood, they’re free to act on their feelings as they choose. She doesn’t think Pa would begrudge her that, though he may have been bewildered by what she felt. Her living family, though – they’re another matter.

The children must have been waiting with their noses pressed to the windows, for they all come racing out to meet her when she pulls the wagon into David’s yard. Jennie and Bertha both fling themselves at her skirts, arms tight around her knees; Albert hangs back, as befits a boy of nearly ten who doesn’t wish to show himself as emotional as his sisters. She smiles and holds an arm out to him, and he comes to hug her, so she supposes he isn’t grown too old to love her after all.

All three of the children are already chattering at her. Jennie talks the quickest. “Mouser had kittens, may we keep one? David said we might once they’re old enough. We picked one out already, she’s all white with a black tail and little black boots and she’s the smartest of them, I know – “

“- we ought to have the orange one,” Albert puts in, “he’s bigger – “

“- but she’s so soft, and her eyes are so big and blue – “

“- a tomcat would be better, they’re fiercer – “

“All right, all right!” Sara gives each of them a final squeeze, then lets them go. “You may keep a kitten, but I leave it to you to decide which one. Go and fetch your things from the bedroom; I have to talk to David. Jennie, help your sister.”

“We packed everything,” Jennie says solemnly, “and folded and ironed it, too. Mattie let me use the iron. Can I use the iron when we’re home? I didn’t scorch a single thing.”

“We’ll see.” Sara gives her a gentle nudge. “Go on, now.”

The children go as they’re instructed. Inside, Sara finds her brother seated at the kitchen table; her sister-in-law, Mattie, is busy at the oven. David looks up when she comes in. “All’s well?”

“As well as can be.” Sara lowers herself into the seat opposite his. “David, did Pa ever say anything to you about sending for a wife?”

David puts down the newspaper he was reading, exchanging a look with Mattie. “He didn’t,” he says, “but that means little enough. I didn’t see much of him in those last few months.” He pauses. “I suppose you have a reason for asking.”

“The reason came in on the train two weeks ago,” Sara says. David’s eyebrows rise. “It was fortune I found her letters to Pa before she arrived, or she would have been stranded at the station.”

“And she’s still at home?”

“She is,” Sara says, “and will be for some time, I think. She came out from Boston, and she says there’s not much for her to go back to.” She pauses. “I know it’s a strange thing, having her stay. But she’s been a great help. And she’s – she’s very sweet, and kind.”

“Strange,” David agrees. “But I’ve heard of stranger. And I’ll admit, I worried about you trying to run the farm by yourself. Freddy’s some help, but he’s still only half-grown.” He tips his chin back towards Mattie. “It’s good to have a helpmeet, isn’t it?”

Sara lets out a long breath. “A helpmeet. Yes, it is. I only worried about how the children might feel.”

David’s face and voice are so bland, it’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. “Well I can’t see as how there’d be any trouble. They’ve been well-behaved for the time they’ve been here, haven’t they, Mattie?” Mattie nods. “And if she’s as kind and helpful as you say, I can’t see them objecting. Just be sure to tell them before they arrive and find her on the doorstep.”

“Of course I’m going to tell them,” Sara says, a little indignantly. “I know enough to do _that_.”

“Then you oughtn’t have any problems,” David says. He stands, scraping the chair backwards. “I suppose Jennie’s already told you all about the kittens? They won’t be ready to leave for a month at least, but once they’re weaned . . .”

Conversation turns then to more pragmatic matters. The children make quick work of their bags, and it’s hardly any time at all before Jennie and Bertha are hanging from Sara’s sleeve, begging “let’s go” let’s go,” so Sara bids goodbye to David and Mattie and herds the little ones out to the wagon.

“Things have changed at home somewhat,” she says, once David’s cabin has faded into the horizon and the children have finished waving. “I’ve moved to Pa’s old room, so you girls have the back bedroom to yourselves.” She pauses. “And we’ve a new member of the family. She arrived two weeks past.”

Bertha is busy fidgeting with her hair ribbon; Sara’s not sure at all that she even heard what she said. But Jennie and Albert both snap to attention. “What new member?” Albert says, just as Jennie says “Who is she?”

“She’s called Dora.” Sara pulls slightly on the reins, steering Bessy towards the homestead. “She’s – Pa asked her to come out and stay with us, before he took sick. She didn’t arrive in time to see him, but she’s staying nonetheless. I expect you all to be good to her.”

“Is she pretty?” Bertha asks, answering Sara’s earlier question as to whether she was listening. She’s chewing on the end of her hair ribbon; Sara reaches over and tugs it gently out of her mouth. “Yes, she’s quite pretty.” A thought occurs to her. “She does have a mark on her face, but I know you all know your manners and won’t call attention to it. You remember what Pa said about commenting on others’ appearances, don’t you?”

Nods from all three children. From Jennie: “It matters what’s in their hearts, not on their face.”

“That’s right.” Sara flicks the reins; she can see the homestead now, and Dora and Freddy standing in the doorway. “Almost there.”

When they pull into the front yard, the children all go tumbling from the back of the wagon before it’s even stopped. Jennie and Bertha dash to hug Freddy, while Albert tugs on Bessy’s bridle. “May I take her tack off?”

“You may help Freddy do it, if he says yes,” Sara says. “But say hello to Dora first.”

Dora is hanging back in the doorway, watching Freddy greet the children with a timid smile. Sara wants badly to go to her, to put her arms around her and kiss her the way Pa had done with Ma when she was small; to make it clear to all present where Dora stands in the circle of their family. She can’t do that, of course. But she does go to her and hug her briefly, murmuring in her ear as she does so. “I missed you.”

“It’s only been two hours,” Dora murmurs in return, but she’s blushing bright pink as Sara pulls away. Sara gestures, catching the children’s attention. “Come and say hello.”

The children approach slowly, Jennie holding tight to Bertha’s hand. “Hello,” Albert says, and the other two follow his cue with murmured “hellos” of their own.

“Hello,” Dora says. Her hands are twisted in her apron, but she’s still smiling, at least. “You’re Albert, Jennie, and Bertha, aren’t you? Your Pa told me a great deal about you.” She hesitates, shooting a sideways look at Sara. “I brought you all gifts from Provincetown. Would you like to see them?”

The children’s faces light up as one, and Dora steps aside as they rush the door. Sara bends to Dora’s ear. “You never said!”

“I’d forgotten until this morning,” Dora says quietly. In the kitchen, Sara can hear the little ones exclaiming over their new treasures. “I made handkerchiefs for you as well, and bought a fountain pen for Freddy. I gave him his gift after he got up this morning.” She looks at Sara from under her lashes. “Though I suppose I’ve given you at least one gift already.”

Sara splutters with laughter, covering her mouth with her hand to smother the sound. “You have, at that,” she says, “but I expect more to come.”

If Dora were a less well-bred woman, Sara would have classified the gesture that follows her words as a wink. “You would be right to expect it.”

* * *

It proves difficult to settle the children to bed that night, so excited are they by their new toys, but Sara manages it in the end. Bertha goes to sleep with her new doll clutched tightly in her arms, while Jennie spends a good quarter of an hour arranging her tea set just so in the kitchen cabinet before she will be persuaded to ready herself for bed. Albert makes no outward protest, but Sara can see him eyeing the box where his toy soldiers are kept, and makes a mental note to keep an ear out in case he tries to get up in the middle of the night to play with them. It’s far past dark when she finally manages to retire to her room – to her and Dora’s room, rather.

Dora is waiting for her. She’s seated at the vanity, as always, but her hair is already unpinned and combed out. “I would have waited for you,” she says as Sara comes in, “but I didn’t know how long you’d be.”

“It’s all right.” Sara sets her candle down on the bedside table, feeling suddenly shy. The previous night’s surge of passion had prevented any hesitation on her part; now that they have the time to talk at their leisure, she’s not sure where to start.

Dora comes to her rescue. She stands up from the chair, backlit by the glow of her candle. “May I see you?”

Sara blinks. “See me?”

“Without your dress and shift, I mean.” Dora’s hands go to the ribbon at the neck of her shift. “I’ll go as well, if you like.”

Sara would very much like. Swallowing past a suddenly dry mouth, she fumbles with her buttons, cursing the dozens required to hold her dress in place. Still, once they’re all undone, she’s careful about stepping out of the dress and hanging it up in the wardrobe. Taking a deep breath, she undoes her own shift and lifts it off over her head. It’s only then, naked in the candlelight, that she turns to look at Dora.

Even in the half-light, she’s a sight to behold. No, Sara thinks – not even in the half-light, especially in the half-light. She’s pink and gold in the glow of the candlelight, hair loose and riotous over her shoulders, her nipples peaked in the chill of the late March air. She smiles shyly at Sara while Sara gawks. “We never looked properly at each other last night. I wanted to.”

“I’ve wanted to,” Sara says hoarsely, “for awhile.” She feels an unaccountable urge to cover herself with her hands – silly to think of it, at this point, but she feels small and dark and ugly next to Dora. Her shoulders are splattered with freckles, her breasts are low and heavy, and her hips are wide; she’s sturdy, built for hard work. Not to be looked at.

But Dora is looking at her, and there’s no judgement in her gaze. “You’re so lovely,” she says. “I thought you were, but I never got a good look at you to be sure. Now I know.”

“I’m nothing special,” Sara says. Her mouth is still dry. “You, though.”

“Shhh.” Dora crosses the room and puts a finger to Sara’s lips. This close, Sara can feel the heat rolling off her body in waves. “Are you calling me a liar? I know what’s in front of me.”

“I would never,” Sara whispers. She chases Dora’s finger with her mouth, nipping lightly as she withdraws. Dora laughs, dropping her hands down to Sara’s shoulders and sliding them over the round of her arms. Sara shivers as Dora’s hands skim across her ribcage and up to cover her breasts. Dora rubs gently at one of Sara’s nipples, and Sara whimpers, clenching her legs together where she’s wet and throbbing. “Please . . .”

Dora drops a kiss on her shoulder. “What do you want?”

Sara wants so many things, it’s hard to pick just one. “Kiss me,” she says finally, and Dora does. Her tongue snakes into Sara’s mouth, and Sara groans against her, leaning into the touch. Dora is still toying with her breast, rubbing and squeezing, and Sara leans into the touch as hard as she can, arching up on her toes to get better leverage. She grabs Dora around the waist, pulling her in by the hips and dropping one hand lower to squeeze her buttocks. Dora gasps at that, kissing down Sara’s throat and across her collarbone. “Yes,” she says, “yes, please, more – “

Sara slides her hand further down, so that it grazes the place where Dora wants her most, where she’s so wet that Sara’s fingertips come away dripping after the slightest touch. They did this last night, and it was good, but she wants to try something different. It’s difficult to speak, especially when Dora’s mouth on her skin is driving her to distraction, but she finally manages to catch her breath long enough to say, “bed?”

Dora disentangles herself from Sara’s arms and steps back. Sara misses her almost instantly, following her as she lays down on the quilt, legs splayed wide. Sara crawls up onto the bed beside her, ducking down to slide one of Dora’s legs over her shoulder. Dora’s shoulders are leaned back against the headboard, and she watches Sara with glittering eyes. “What will you – “

“Shhhh,” Sara says against the soft skin of her thigh. She kisses and bites her way up and down Dora’s legs, running her tongue over the curve of Dora’s hip and finding the place where she pinched her thigh yesterday so that she can bite it again. When Dora starts to squirm and whine underneath her, pulling impatiently on a lock of Sara’s hair, Sara gives in and kisses her way back up Dora’s thigh, finally burying her face in between Dora’s legs and lapping at her sex.

Dora’s thighs squeeze tight around Sara’s ears, and Sara laughs against her. She licks against her with broad, slow strokes, circling the small bump of skin that she knows will make Dora scream when she touches it. She doesn’t, not just yet; instead, she keeps up the steady pressure of her tongue, even slipping it briefly inside her. Dora shudders above her, still pulling on her hair. “Could you – “ she says, “could you go faster – “

Sara obliges. Dora’s thighs are trembling around her ears, and she can sense it won’t be much longer, so she moves back up to the spot where Dora wants her, bumping her nose against her and finally licking over the sensitive spot that makes Dora gasp and thrust up against her face. She keeps at it, licking over and over with increasing pressure, until Dora’s hand tightens in her hair and she turns her face to the pillow to muffle her cries as she finishes.

Sara stays in place until Dora’s thighs relax around her ears; then she pulls away and crawls back up the bed. She kisses Dora, and hears Dora sigh softly as she tastes herself on Sara’s lips. Then she sits up, legs astride Dora’s hips, and takes hold of one of her hands. “Here,” she says. “will you – “

Dora nods, and Sara guides her hand between her legs. She likes riding her fingers like this; seated upright, she can see Dora beneath her, the flush spread all down her body, her eyes as they track Sara’s movements. Dora’s free hand comes up to cup Sara’s breast again as Sara rocks against her fingers; Dora, more giving than Sara had been, braces the flat of her thumb against the top of Sara’s sex. Sara shudders, rocking down harder and harder against her hand. There are three fingers inside her, stretching her full, and she thinks she could probably take more. Not tonight – not just yet – but soon, while they explore and taste and learn each others’ bodies. They have time.

Sara braces herself against Dora as she grinds down, both hands pressed down on her ribcage. It’s only a matter of minutes before she comes, thighs tightening, sparks shooting down her spine. Dora lets her move as much as she pleases, watching her with wide, warm eyes. When the pressure of Dora’s hand starts to chafe, Sara rolls to the side, sliding down until her head is level with Dora’s. She leans over and kisses her again. She wants to say “thank you,” but it seems too small, and she can’t think of what else to say.

Dora leans into the kiss, and knocks their foreheads gently together when it’s done. “Can we sleep without nightgowns tonight, or will it be too cold?”

“You’ll be cold either way,” Sara says without rancour, “in that flimsy thing. But we ought to pull the quilt up, at least.”

Dora obliges, pulling the quilt tight around their shoulders. Sara sighs against her shoulder. She’ll have to get up to blow the candles out, at least; no sense wasting them just so she can linger under the covers. But that can wait for a few moments more. Dora is smiling at her, and the bed is warm, heated by their bodies mingled together; she wants to enjoy this. They have to get up early tomorrow, and milk the cow, and take Bessy out again – Dora’s graduated to trotting, but she hasn’t tried to gallop yet, and she needs to – and sit the children down for lessons, bake bread and ensure there’s enough food to last out the month before they go into town again.

They have a lot to do. But they also have a lot of time to do it in, and more. Time for the homestead, time for the children, time for themselves.

Dora says, “I’ll snuff the candles,” against her ear and gets out of bed before Sara can stop her Sara watches as she moves to blow the candles out, plunging the room into darkness; her body is only illuminated now by the light of the moon. Sara makes a private promise to herself to learn Dora’s body by heart, so she can sense the space her curves take up even when there’s no light to see with. When Dora climbs back into bed, Sara kisses her again, and it’s a silent promise: they will get up tomorrow, and they will take care of their home, and they will take care of each other.

“Good night,” she says, quiet in the moonlight.

“Good night,” Dora says, and then, “I – “ She stops. Sara thinks she can guess what she was about to say, but instead she says, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Mmm.” Sara tucks her nose against Dora’s neck. They can leave it at that, for now.


End file.
